


Everyone Needs a Little Mischief in Their Life

by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Baker Jackson Whittemore, Book Store Owner Derek Hale, Canon-Typical Violence, Coffee Shop Owner Derek Hale, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Don’t copy to another site, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Stackson Brotp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasterella/pseuds/isthatbloodonhisshirt
Summary: Finally, against his better judgement, and having gone in circles for much too long, he blurted out, “Who is my soulmate?”The Witch looked disappointed, like he’d fucked up. Like he’d fucked up bad.But she answered anyway.“Mischief.”Derek stared at her, not understanding, because what? “That’s not a name,” he insisted.“Not exactly, no.” She offered him a small smile.“I don’t understand.”“You will.”





	Everyone Needs a Little Mischief in Their Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Swlfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swlfangirl/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Swlfangirl!! I hope it's a good one :)

To be fair, he hadn’t exactly _meant_  to throw him into a tree. It had been a desperate attempt to get him out of the way as quickly as possible, and it was easier to use his actions as opposed to his words. Words were hard, they required thought and execution. Not that actions didn’t, as well, but somehow it was easier to just throw him out of harm’s way than to tell him to duck or whatever.

Besides, Stiles Stilinski was exceptionally bad at following directions.

He said, “Stay here,” and Stiles followed him.

He said, “Get behind me,” and Stiles leapt into danger.

He said, “You should get some sleep,” and Stiles marathoned all the Marvel movies.

Basically, any time he opened his mouth, Stiles did the exact _opposite_  of what he told him to do. So in the end, instead of yelling, “Get down!” and having Stiles just stand there like the idiot he was, it was much, _much_  easier to just barrel into him and send him flying off his feet so that he could just take the hit himself.

After all, he was a Werewolf. He could handle a few hits, especially when regular bullets were involved. They hurt, because of course they did, but he would heal. Stiles wouldn’t.

Well, no, Stiles would _heal_ , he wasn’t a freak of nature. Humans did tend to heal, it was just... he would heal in a few minutes, an hour at most. Stiles would take days, even _weeks_. And that was provided it didn’t hit him anywhere vital.

Derek Hale could heal any bullet wounds barring ones that went through his skull. Hell, he’d had a pipe clean through his chest once and he’d healed that just fine! Sure, he’d been an Alpha at the time, but that was hardly the point. The point was, he could heal faster than Stiles, so when the shot was aimed at him, Derek shoved him out of the way.

And into a tree.

“What the fuck!” a furious voice bellowed. “He’s _human_!”

Yes. Yes he was, Derek was well aware of that. But being thrown into a tree _had_  to be better than getting shot in the gut, which was where the bullet had hit Derek.

Thankfully, Stiles just coughed and struggled to climb back to his feet. He looked disoriented, but unharmed, for the most part. That was all Derek cared about, because if there was one thing he would deny to the grave as being true despite how insanely _true_  it was, it was how much he cared about Stiles.

Of course, everyone knew he _cared_  about Stiles. They hadn’t gone twelve years of this pseudo friendship without him slipping every now and then, but no one knew how _much_.

Derek only spared enough time to make absolutely certain Stiles was all right before focussing back on the task at hand. Namely taking down the group of—he didn’t know, honestly. They weren’t human, he knew that for certain, considering the glowing red eyes and the overly long limbs, but they were humanoid enough.

When a shout sounded from his left, he turned to see a blur fly past him, decimating a tree when it slammed into it. Jackson Whittemore got angrily back to his feet, cursing and growling furiously. Half of his face was covered with scales, but his brow had distorted and his chops had lengthened. He was the weirdest Werewolf-hybrid Derek had ever seen, but fuck if he wasn’t useful with his paralysing Kanima venom.

“You’re _dead_! This shirt was _expensive_!”

Derek turned back to the task at hand, dodging a swipe and avoiding getting shot a second time. He slashed sharp claws out in an attempt to make the thing back off, but it just let him sink them into its gut before punching at him given the close proximity.

It was while he stumbled backwards that he noticed Stiles wasn’t by the tree anymore, and he lost a few precious seconds looking around urgently for him before his stomach dropped. He shouted Stiles’ name, half-terrified and half-furious, because the moron had taken advantage of the humanoid monsters’ distraction with Jackson and Derek and had snuck past them all towards the glowing woman.

She was in the middle of some kind of blue powder circle, the ground pulsing beneath her feet. Her arms were tied behind her back and she was secured to an old tree—almost as old as the Nemeton, from the looks of it, but not quite.

And she was glowing an almost blinding white. It was painful to look at her, and she was easily the only thing illuminating the dark area around them.

Derek didn’t know who she was, he’d only caught a glimpse of her before the glowing had started, but she was old. Really old. Probably in her eighties, and hideous, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try and save her.

Apparently he’d also have to save Stiles too, considering where the moron was. But the second Stiles’ foot kicked out to break the circle, the blue powder caught on fire and acrid smoke began to fill the air, obscuring Stiles and the woman from sight. Her glow was beginning to diminish and the humanoid freaks still coming at Jackson and Derek seemed to notice because they whipped around urgently and started hurrying back for their captive.

The two Werewolves chased after them, but just when Derek leapt to tackle one of them to the ground, it let out a high-pitched, inhuman screech and turned to ash, which had Derek land hard on the unforgiving ground. Definitely not one of his finer moments, but he jerked back to his feet, looking around for the enemy. All he saw was smoke. No shapes moving near him aside from Jackson, who’d come to close ranks with him since they’d been woefully outnumbered.

“Stilinski!” Jackson called through the smoke. “Stiles!”

For a few heart-stopping seconds, they heard and saw nothing. It seemed to take an eternity before movement caught their attention and mercifully, Stiles stumbled out of the smoke, coughing and waving one hand, eyes watering. Derek felt his chest loosen at the sight of him.

“Are you okay?” Jackson grabbed his arm and yanked him closer, giving him a once-over. “Did you forget to take your idiot-medication this morning? What were you thinking?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Stiles insisted, still coughing, turning to look over his shoulder.

“Where did she go?” Derek asked, because no amount of enhanced senses could help him with the sound of the fire, the rising smoke, and the acrid smell in the air.

“Fuck if I know. Fire started and I set her free and then everything went ‘poof’.” He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, continuing to cough roughly, and Jackson yanked him further back and away from the fire.

Derek followed suit, the three of them moving back so they weren’t in the thick of it. Stiles seemed to have it worse considering he’d been surrounded by it, but he stopped coughing after a few moments once they were in fresher air.

The three of them watched the small blue flames for a long while. They eventually petered out and died, surprisingly not finding the trees and dead leaves in the vicinity good enough to continue burning. Which was probably a good thing, since Derek’s house was only a mile or so to the west and he didn’t want to lose another house to a fire.

There was still a lot of smoke, but not so much that they couldn’t see properly, and it was evident the old woman was gone. Derek wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

Hopefully she hadn’t been an evil being and the humanoid monsters were actually trying to _save_  the town by killing her. With their luck, he wouldn’t doubt it.

When he opened his mouth to say they should leave before anything happened, he tensed and whipped around at the voice that spoke from less than a foot behind their group.

People didn’t sneak up on Werewolves, and the way Jackson snarled and wrenched Stiles behind them suggested he also hadn’t heard anything.

“That was rather unpleasant.”

Derek frowned, eying the woman in front of them. He’d been expecting the old woman tied to the tree, but instead he was staring at a gorgeous young lady, no older than twenty, with long black hair, startling green eyes and flawless skin. Derek was about to ask her who she was and how she’d snuck up on them when he realized he recognized the clothes she was wearing.

It was the same thing the old woman had been wearing.

“Holy shit, _Beauty and the Beast_ was right,” Stiles breathed behind him.

“What?” Jackson snapped.

“You know, the Enchantress. She’s all old and decrepit at the beginning and then turns into that smokin’ hot younger lady.”

“It’s a cartoon!” Jackson snapped. “What do you mean ‘smokin’ hot’?”

“Shut up, you just can’t appreciate the female form anymore,” Stiles argued.

Derek ignored them while they bickered, tuning them out easily since it had been this way for the past three years ever since both of them had returned to Beacon Hills. He just watched the woman in front of them, who looked amused by the bantering, and patiently waited for Stiles and Jackson to stop. When they finally seemed to remember what was going on around them—sometimes Derek didn’t know how any of these idiots were still alive—they both quieted and all three of them stared at the woman.

She smiled pleasantly at them, inclining her head at Stiles slightly. “Thank you for your assistance. Had you not intervened, it was entirely likely I would have been drained of all of my magic.”

“What were they trying to do?” Derek demanded, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his weight slightly so he was blocking Stiles from sight. Predictably, Stiles just shifted a bit himself so he wasn’t completely blocked, but at least Jackson was helping keep him mostly out of sight behind the two of them.

“Open a portal. To the source of all magic. Quite difficult, but possible with a pure Witch.”

“Let me guess, you’re the pure Witch,” Jackson said dryly. Derek felt like he was thinking of the wrong type of ‘pure’ in this case.

She only smiled at him, eying the three of them briefly before straightening slightly. “I am not fond of humans. Weak and primitive as they are—”

“Hey!” Stiles insisted, but she continued as if he’d said nothing.

“—however I shall make an exception. It is not every day I stumble across a human belonging to a wolf pack.”

Derek didn’t like the way she was staring at Stiles. With interest. Generally when someone showed an interest in Stiles, it meant trouble. He shifted closer to Jackson, again trying to block Stiles from sight, and the Witch’s unnaturally green eyes shifted to him before she smiled slightly.

“As thanks for your aid, I’m willing to grant each of you a favour.”

Stiles perked up instantly, trying to shove his way between the two wolves. They easily held him back. “Like a wish?”

“Of sorts.” She looked amused. “A favour of knowledge.”

“That’s boring,” Jackson muttered. Stiles shoved him and hissed for him to shut up, because he obviously had something in mind for this and didn’t want the Witch to take it back.

Her smile widened, and she was _definitely_  amused when she looked over at Jackson. “I shall wait for you in the clearing.” She motioned back where she’d been tied up. “You are each being granted _one_  question. One attempt to gain knowledge you would otherwise not have. Ask me anything you would like, and I will answer. Come forward when you are ready.”

Derek blinked, and she was gone. Stiles flailed dramatically, as usual, and they turned quickly. If she really _was_  in the clearing with the smoke, it put Stiles directly in front and Derek hastily grabbed his arm to yank him back.

That just earned him a slap he barely felt. “I was in the FBI,” he snapped, trying to yank his arm free, but Derek didn’t release him, eyes scanning the clearing before them.

It was empty. The Witch wasn’t there.

But when he moved slightly, he noticed there was a small shimmer, like some kind of magical forcefield, and that suggested a spell had been cast to mask her presence. Maybe for privacy purposes, maybe to avoid them knowing what was truly beyond the line. He supposed if they were being granted one question each, assuming that was _true_ , that the idea was they shouldn’t be able to overhear one another, but he couldn’t imagine this boding well. Things were always more violent and horrible in their little pack than anything else, so the idea of something working in their favour was suspicious.

He was glad he was still gripping Stiles’ arm because the moron was trying to break free so he could race for the clearing without giving its dangers a second thought. Jackson grabbed Stiles’ other arm, wrenching him back further as well, as if not trusting Derek to keep the human safe.

“You’re a moron,” Jackson snapped irately. “It could be a trap.”

“A trap for what?” Stiles demanded. “She was _clearly_  in distress, and we helped her, and now we are being rewarded!”

“Yeah,” Derek agreed, scowling towards the shimmering air, “and when has anything like this ever worked in our favour?”

“I have questions!” Stiles insisted, flailing the arm being held by Derek and flapping that hand at him. “So many questions!”

“You only get one,” Jackson snapped again. Derek assumed he was getting tired of constantly worrying about Stiles, which made sense, since he was always the one getting hurt in these kinds of situations.

“Then let me use yours, you don’t want it, anyway!”

The two Werewolves cast a glance at one another. This smelled like trouble, but Derek doubted Stiles would leave with something so tempting only a few feet away. He was kind of an idiot about things like that sometimes.

Smartest person Derek knew, smarter than even Lydia Martin, but a complete moron sometimes. It was a hard concept to wrap his head around.

Knowledge was his downfall though. Stiles was nothing if not curious and he would definitely give up his soul to obtain all the knowledge in the universe. It was why this entire thing was terrifying to Derek because he had no idea what to expect if he were to let Stiles walk in there.

He eyed the shimmering air, thinking. On the one hand, this was definitely a trap, and he wasn’t an idiot. But on the other... what if... it wasn’t? Derek himself had questions. A lot of them. Some he knew he could get answers to himself, but others...

His life wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows, and a part of him was desperate to know that he’d survived all of this for a reward at the end of the day. Nothing like the afterlife, because that wasn’t going to benefit him in the here and now, but just something to look forward to. Something he wanted and had always thought he’d never have.

Something Kate had ruined for him.

If there was even the slightest chance, Derek had to take it. He had to know. He’d survived too much and suffered enough, he needed one good thing in his life. One confirmation that maybe, just _maybe_ , it had all been worth it.

He glanced over at Stiles, ignoring the way his heart clenched in his chest. Because as horrible as his life had been, it had led him here. To this moment. Where he had friends who cared about him, and a pack that supported him, and a business, and a Stiles.

And a _Stiles_.

“Stay with him,” Derek finally said, releasing Stiles’ arm since Jackson was still holding his other one. He turned back to the shimmering air, hoping he wasn’t about to make a mistake. “I’ll go first.”

He hadn’t even made it one step when Jackson suddenly shoved Stiles into him, the human letting out a squawk at being manhandled so roughly. Derek caught him before he bounced off his frame and fell over, then glanced at Jackson, who was giving him a look.

“You have _the_  worst luck _ever_. You going first is like _asking_  for this to blow up in our faces. _I_ will go first.” He shifted his gaze to the shimmering air, eyes narrowing. “And if I die, I’ll haunt you.”

“Sounds fair,” Stiles said with a grin, clearly eager to get this moving along. He evidently didn’t think any of this was dangerous, and while Derek wished he could be that optimistic, when had anything in his life ever been _this_  easy?

Jackson stood motionless for a long while, staring at the shimmer. After a few moments, he tilted his chin up defiantly, squared his shoulders, and marched purposefully towards the clearing. When he neared the shimmer, he disappeared. Derek clenched his free hand into a fist, really hoping that hadn’t been a mistake. How long should he wait before barrelling in after him? A minute? Two? A lot could happen in a minute, and Derek was fond of Jackson, considering he was his only surviving Beta. He didn’t want to lose him.

That, and Stiles would throw a fit, given they’d become inseparable the past two years. An annoyance Derek was struggling to ignore because jealousy was a terrible look for him. The only consolation he had was that Jackson was still dating Ethan, even if said man hadn’t been around much lately, out doing something personal that required patience and finesse. Two things Jackson lacked, and thus had relegated him to the sidelines. He’d been pissed at first, but after a while he’d calmed down. He missed Ethan, but he was otherwise happy, and he and Stiles were exceptionally close now.

Something Derek was, again, struggling to ignore. Jackson was taken, and the fact that Stiles had admitted he was attractive was nothing for Derek to get jealous about. _Derek_  thought Jackson was attractive, he was everybody’s type, nothing to destroy his pretty face over.

“What do you think he’s asking?” Stiles asked Derek after a few seconds of silence. “Do you think it’s about his parents? It’s probably about his parents.”

“I don’t know,” Derek said. “It’s none of our business.”

“Like you’re not the least bit curious.”

Derek turned to give him an unimpressed look. He was too busy worrying about Jackson not coming back out to think much on what he was asking.

“It’s none of our business,” he repeated.

“What are _you_  going to ask?”

“If you have a mute button,” Derek replied automatically, looking back at the shimmer. He was still gripping Stiles’ arm, fingers flexing slightly around the muscle of his bicep. Stiles had really filled out in the past few years. Not that he hadn’t been formidable before, but his stint in the FBI had really done wonders for his physique.

He knew Stiles liked how different he was, and while Derek appreciated the obvious shift in his confidence, he’d liked Stiles how he was before, and he liked Stiles how he was now. Stiles was Stiles, and he didn’t care what he looked like.

Though he still liked the view, especially when the new confidence he had meant Stiles wore tighter clothes sometimes.

“Come on,” Stiles insisted, nudging him. “What’re you gonna ask?”

“What are _you_  going to ask?” Derek countered.

“It’s a secret.”

“Exactly.” Derek looked back at the shimmer, wondering if it had been long enough to be concerned. Just when he was about to tell Stiles to _stay there_ —despite knowing he wouldn’t listen—the air shifted and Jackson came storming back out, looking ten different kinds of pissed off, but otherwise unharmed.

“What happened?” Derek asked, still holding Stiles’ arm since he was liable to race forward for his turn.

“The _bitch_  is big on riddles,” he spat viciously, turning to glare towards the empty-looking clearing. “Oh sure, she answered my question, but fuck if I know what she actually _means_!”

Derek let out a slow breath, Jackson’s return suggesting it was safe, if a little frustrating.

Stiles was practically vibrating beside him, and it took a considerable effort for Derek to finally release him. Stiles was gone instantly, racing for the shimmer and disappearing from sight.

Jackson returned to Derek’s side, the two of them staring ahead, waiting for Stiles to come back. Derek really hoped this wasn’t all a ruse to kidnap Stiles, but the good news was that Derek would end up going last so, if anything, he could follow him in and save his stupid ass.

Not that Stiles often needed saving. Realistically, Derek tended to be the one requiring assistance more often than not.

“Heard from McCall?” Jackson asked, as if the silence was making him uncomfortable.

Considering how much time they both spent with Stiles, silence of any kind was uncomfortable, now.

“No.” Derek hadn’t checked his phone, but it was an easy answer to give.

When they’d discovered the humanoid monsters skulking through town and eventually caught up to them while they’d been sacrificing the Witch, Stiles had been calling and texting their fearless leader for a good twenty minutes and received no response. Anyone else not replying would’ve been cause for concern, but with Scott McCall, that was par for the course.

He may as well not have a cell phone, for all the good it did him. Scott never answered it, and if Stiles ever died because of Scott’s inability to recognize when this was more important than whatever else he had going on in his life, Derek was going to murder him.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for Scott. He had a life, and friends, and a girlfriend or whatever. But he was the Alpha, and bullshit like this required his attention. Beacon Hills was _his_  territory now that Derek wasn’t an Alpha himself anymore, and it irked him a great deal to realize that Scott wasn’t taking his duty as an Alpha Werewolf seriously. He hadn’t for years, but he was getting worse with age, in Derek’s opinion.

Thankfully Beacon Hills was less of a cesspool of Supernatural bullshit ever since the Nemeton had been uprooted and destroyed, courtesy of their town Druid Alan Deaton. Things still happened, but nowhere nearly as often. It allowed most of them to live normal lives, to the point where they mostly _did_.

Derek owned a bookshop. People still laughed about it, but after all the shit he’d been through, when he’d moved back to town around the same time as Stiles had declared he was returning, he’d seen the town bookstore up for sale and figured, “Why not?”

He liked books and reading. He liked the small, cozy little shop with its endless shelves and mountain of books. And it was close to the loft, to boot. Sure, most people didn’t like reading _real_  books anymore, what with Kindle and Kobo and all those other electronic means of reading their favourite books. On top of that, fanfiction, and original fiction, and the fact that people could read just about anything on their phones.

Paper books were a dying breed, but Derek had renovated the place so it was a coffeeshop/bookstore hybrid. He knew nothing about baking or coffee in general, but as it turned out, he didn’t have to because Jackson was a closet baker and when he’d found out what Derek was doing, he’d immediately demanded he be hired. He had nothing else going on until Ethan returned, and while Derek had been surprised Jackson would stoop so low as to be seen working in retail, apparently London had been good for him the past few years. He was still an asshole, but he didn’t let other people’s opinions of him ruin the things he loved.

He’d probably learned how short life could be.

And that was how Derek had opened a bookshop in town with a small coffeeshop attached. It worked well business-wise. People came in for coffee, saw the books and the plush seats, and sometimes decided to stick around and read. And Jackson was a surprisingly good baker, even if he sucked at customer service.

Not that Derek was any better, but that explained why he’d hired Stiles.

While he’d had his heart set on the FBI and had even left town with the intention of escaping the “Supernatural bullshit,” being away from his father had been too hard for him. When he’d returned, he’d debated joining the police, but he hadn’t wanted to forever be the sheriff’s son, so he’d looked around before finally bullying his way into getting Derek to hire him.

They had a few high schoolers working there, as well, but usually the store had Derek behind the counter on the book side reading, Jackson in the back making various pastries, and Stiles at the front being loud and exuberant about everything. People loved him, though none nearly as much as Derek did.

He’d fight Jackson on that.

Derek was thinking about the new arrivals in an attempt to distract himself from worrying about Stiles, and straightened when said man finally walked back through the shimmering air, looking confused, but unharmed.

“What happened?” Derek demanded at the same moment Jackson said, “Did she answer your question?”

“Yes. And no.” Stiles frowned, staring at the ground while approaching them slowly. “I’m not sure, actually.”

Derek shifted his gaze back to the clearing.

His turn.

He had a vague idea of what he wanted to ask, but Jackson and Stiles’ reactions suggested he would have to word it carefully if he wanted the right answer. He didn’t want a riddle or a not-answer, so it would be best to think carefully.

He should’ve been doing that while the other two had been taking their turns, but it was hard to put his protectiveness away. He used to be Alpha to these two idiots, it was hard to put that on the backburner.

Moving forward slowly, he pushed through the shimmer and when he walked through, he could see everything exactly as it had been before. The blue powder had disappeared, but there was still some ash on the ground and tendrils of smoke rising. The air was acrid with the distinct scent of fire, and when he turned around, he couldn’t see Jackson and Stiles anymore, like the spell had teleported where he was to another location.

Facing forward once more, his eyes found the Witch, who was sitting neatly on one of the large branches of the tree she’d been tied to. He hesitated before moving forward, looking around for any threats. Anything that suggested the Jackson and Stiles who’d walked out weren’t the same ones who’d walked in.

The Witch said nothing, but the small smile she sported suggested she knew he didn’t trust her. Only an idiot wouldn’t be cautious, and it took him a long while to close the distance, standing at the base of the tree and staring up at her.

“Hm,” she said simply. “Of the three, you are the only one who knows what you want to ask.”

Derek frowned, wondering how she could possibly know that, but not asking her. He didn’t want her to take that as his one ‘question’ because he’d be pissed if she did. She was right, after all. He knew what he wanted to ask, just not _how_  to ask it.

“My mother told me a story a long time ago,” he admitted softly. “I thought it was ridiculous the first time I heard it. When I met Paige, I started to re-think its stupidity, though I still didn’t believe it. When I met Kate, I was positive it had to be real, even if I knew after she burned my family alive that it wasn’t her. Now...” He thought of Stiles. “I hate admitting it, but I know it’s real. People talk about it, joke about it, even make up theories and stories about it, but I know it’s the truth.”

She smiled, and he wondered if she could read minds, because she said, “Your mother was right. Soulmates are real.”

Hearing that was like a punch to the gut, because it honestly suggested that every single person on the planet was destined to be with someone else. Whether or not those two people found each other was another story, but that wasn’t the point. The point was: they _had_  someone. _Derek_  had someone who was for him. Solely for him. Someone who could pick him up when he was down, who could argue with him without turning it into a fight, who could look at him tenderly and with so much love Derek wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

And even as he thought of all of that, his mind drifted towards Stiles.

Stiles, who ever since they’d met had always been there for him. Who’d helped him when he hadn’t wanted to, just because it was the right thing to do. Who’d protected him from the police, his own father. Who’d believed in Derek when no one else had. Who’d comforted him, worried about him, cared about him.

Who’d stopped. Who’d stopped to look back when he thought he might lose him, instead of rushing away to save his best friend.

Who’d come back with him, not once, but _twice_.

Who just kept coming back. Who was always _there_. Stiles had entered his life, and no matter how far either of them ran, no matter where they went, what they did, how hard they tried, they always inevitably ended up back in the same place.

Derek had been in love with Stiles for almost five years. He’d never admitted it, not even to himself, because having his anchor be someone he would die for was dangerous. Letting Stiles _know_  was even _more_  dangerous. It was safer for him to just... keep it bottled up.

Hide it. Ignore it. Pretend it wasn’t there.

But Derek _wanted_  him. Like he’d never wanted anyone before in his life. Being around him again, always seeing him, spending time with him, Derek wanted him in a way that was well beyond friendship.

And that scared him. Because what if Stiles belonged to someone else? What if Derek _thought_  his soulmate was Stiles, but it wasn’t? That would mean someone else finding Stiles, clicking with him, taking him away.

Besides, he had no idea how Stiles felt. Sure he’d always protected him, and was his anchor and an _amazing_  friend, but Stiles was open like that with everyone. He was a good person, and what if Derek was misunderstanding? What if what he perceived as genuine interest from Stiles was actually just... Stiles being _Stiles_?

He wanted to know. If he had a chance at happiness. If everything that had gone wrong in his life had led to this moment where finally, _finally_  something would go _right_. Where he could actually have something he wanted, something he _had_  wanted for years, even if he’d denied it. To Stiles, to the pack, to himself.

But Derek wanted Stiles. Stiles was everything. His friend, his saviour, his _anchor_. He wanted Stiles, and if he could have him, in every way imaginable... he just...

Jackson’s words came back to him, and Derek thought hard on how to phrase it. Asking ‘Is Stiles my soulmate?’ seemed easiest, but _too_  easy? He was sure Stiles wasn’t a one-off name, maybe someone else had that name. What if Derek’s soulmate _was_  named Stiles, just not _this_  one?

Asking ‘What is my soulmate’s name’ seemed just as dangerous. If it was ‘Steven’ or something, Derek would spend his entire life trying to find out which one it was, and even then, he’d probably die long before meeting every Steven in existence, not to mention it could be Steven or Stephen, since the spelling differed and he wouldn’t know in a verbal conversation with the Witch.

Every question he could think of had so many possibilities of being vague. He kept going back to his first one, asking ‘Is Stiles Stilinski my soulmate,’ but he kept hesitating. A part of him insisted it was because he would be devastated if the answer was no, but another part was also focussing on the fact that Stiles was just a nickname. Derek figured his real name was Stanislaw or something, but he’d never asked, and he didn’t think guessing was a good idea in this case.

He debated asking if maybe a Stilinski was his soulmate, but he would definitely hate everything about his life if it ended up being the sheriff. Not that he had a problem with the sheriff, but just... he wanted Stiles.

As the minutes dragged on, the Witch looked like she was beginning to worry about him. Like his silence was concerning, and she could see him struggling to phrase his question properly. Eventually, he knew Jackson and Stiles would get worried, would come looking, and he wouldn’t be able to ask his question.

Finally, against his better judgement, and having gone in circles for much too long, he blurted out, “Who is my soulmate?”

The Witch looked disappointed, like he’d fucked up. Like he’d fucked up bad.

But she answered anyway.

“Mischief.”

Derek stared at her, not understanding, because what? “That’s not a name,” he insisted.

“Not exactly, no.” She offered him a small smile.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.” She inclined her head slightly. “I wish you luck, Derek Hale. You’re going to need it.”

When Derek blinked, the Witch was gone, and he could hear Jackson and Stiles behind him. He whipped around, seeing them both start at the sight of him, and figured she’d broken the spell and disappeared.

Derek turned back to look at the tree where she’d been perched, feeling bitter and furious.

He’d been right.

When had _anything_  in his life ever been this easy?

Apparently never. Witches were the worst.

* * *

Derek didn’t hear from Scott until the following morning. He’d texted to say he’d been out at dinner and a movie with his newest girlfriend and asked if everything was okay. Derek hadn’t deigned him with a response, but when he got to the store an hour later, he saw Stiles behind the till on the coffeeshop side texting away, clearly giving his friend all the details of the previous night.

He was _viciously_  pleased at the knowledge that, while he, Jackson and Stiles hadn’t exactly gotten the answers they wanted to the questions they’d asked, at least they’d had the opportunity to ask them. Scott hadn’t gotten that, and Derek was pleased.

To be honest, he didn’t know how—or _why_ —Stiles and Scott were even friends anymore. Scott had never been supportive of Stiles, he’d often treated him as nothing more than a necessity as opposed to a true friend, he ignored him when he didn’t want to deal with him, avoided him, didn’t answer his calls when Stiles could be _dying_ , and had even pushed him out of the pack once for defending himself against someone who’d been trying to kill him. Overall, Scott’s friendship with Stiles was questionable, at best. Derek never said anything about it, but Jackson sure did.

Loudly, and at length.

Jackson and Stiles had really bonded since the last time they’d seen one another, and Derek much preferred that friendship. Sure, there was some history between them, but the difference was that Jackson, while an asshole for a long time, had grown up and matured and treated Stiles like a genuine friend. Scott didn’t do that, and Derek often wanted to tell Stiles to just ditch him.

Most of the original pack was either dead or had left town. Scott’s own pack had mostly gone off to university or to pursue other things outside of Beacon Hills. Really, it was just the three of them and Scott left, and Scott didn’t even _do_  anything for their pack. He was a terrible Alpha, and Derek felt they could do more good without him, anyway.

Derek’s bad mood only plummeted further when Scott showed up about an hour after open and started peppering Stiles with questions about the previous night.

“So she let you guys ask her anything? Like, _anything_? That’s a huge range, and offers so much insight. So what did you ask?”

“You know, nothing especially life-altering,” Stiles said vaguely. Derek glanced up from his book, and saw Stiles glancing in his direction before hastily looking back at Scott.

Derek liked how he’d set up the place, because sitting behind the counter on the bookshop half allowed him a perfect line of sight to Stiles behind the till on the coffeeshop half. Unless someone was browsing the shelves in that area, anyway, but it was still too early in the morning on a Tuesday for anyone to cross into his side. Most people had been coming and going on Stiles and Jackson’s side.

“Stiles, I’m your best bud, you should tell me. Couldn’t hurt.”

“Best _worst_  bud,” Jackson said loudly from the back.

Scott bristled at that, but Stiles hadn’t heard the comment, being human and all, so he just frowned and looked over his shoulder towards the door that led to the kitchen. Scott wisely didn’t say anything, but his voice was a bit harder when he spoke again.

“Can’t believe you and Jackson spend time together. You remember he made your life hell for as long as he possibly could, right?”

“People change. Jackson’s great,” Stiles insisted. “I like hanging out with him.”

“I don’t like it,” Scott said, almost childishly.

“Maybe you should be around more if you want to avoid being replaced,” Derek said easily from his perch, flipping the page of the book he was half-reading. Only half-reading because the other half of him was listening to Scott and Stiles.

“Why did you come back to town again?” Scott demanded. “We had everything under control without you.”

Derek snapped his book shut, looking up to give Scott a look, but before he could open his mouth, Stiles gave him a pleading look. All they’d done with Scott since their return was fight and argue with him, and it usually put Stiles in an awkward position. As much as he bitched and whined like he and Jackson did, Scott was still his best friend, and some childish, nostalgic part of Stiles was trying to keep things that way.

It was evident they’d grown apart, that Stiles had gone out and done something worthwhile with his life, that he was the only reason Beacon Hills was still standing, but he couldn’t let the piece of his past that _was_  Scott go. Derek wished he would, but that seemed cruel and unfair. He was sure when Scott and Stiles hung out behind closed doors, when he and Jackson weren’t around, that they had a good time and enjoyed their nerdy friendship. It was just hard for Derek to watch the way Scott treated someone he cared a great deal for.

“Don’t you have work to get to?” Derek said instead of starting the fight he so very clearly wanted to start. Stiles owed him big time. “Deaton’s waiting.”

“Just remember who your Alpha is,” Scott hissed at him.

Derek’s eyes flashed threateningly. “You are _not_  my Alpha. Being here does _not_  mean I belong to you.”

“You’re in my pack.”

“I’m in _Stiles’_  pack.”

“Who is in my pack,” Scott countered. “Meaning so are you. Be careful before I make you submit.”

Scott couldn’t make him submit if his life depended on it, but another look from Stiles had Derek keep his mouth shut.

Seeming satisfied that he’d lorded his power over Derek, Scott turned back to Stiles and asked if they were still on for their movie plans that night. Stiles cheerfully confirmed that they were, but Derek knew that he would get a text before the end of the day bailing on him. He was free tonight, he didn’t mind spending time with Stiles when Scott inevitably ditched him.

Though he might have to fight Jackson for that, because Jackson didn’t have many friends left in Beacon Hills and he monopolized Stiles’ time more than anyone else Derek knew.

Derek went back to his book once it was clear Scott was gone, and he listened to Stiles hum to himself while wiping down the counter and restocking some of the various items behind the till. Listening to him was making Derek’s chest ache, his mind returning to the night before.

Mischief.

What did that even _mean_? Derek had asked for his soulmate, and instead received a word. Not even a name, a _word_. He didn’t understand, and despite her words to him, he didn’t think he ever _would_  understand.

He’d asked who his soulmate was, and she’d said mischief. What did mischief even mean in the context of his question? He knew what the word meant, of course he did, but how was it supposed to answer what he’d asked?

Putting his book down, he pulled out his phone and Googled the definition of mischief.

_Playful misbehaviour or troublemaking, especially in children._

Did that mean his soulmate was younger than him? Or maybe still a teenager?! Derek wasn’t exactly young anymore, he’d hit thirty last year, and while he knew that wasn’t _old_ , it wasn’t like he was willing to try and start a relationship with someone too much younger than him.

He wasn’t Kate Argent.

And besides, he _wanted_  Stiles. He could ignore that he’d even asked. After all, people got with and married someone other than their soulmates all the time. He was sure he could live his life happy with Stiles. The chances of either of them meeting their soulmates after they’d already started a relationship were slim.

But still, the “What if?” that hovered over him made him unwilling to even entertain the idea of admitting how he felt. Jackson had said so the night before, Derek’s luck was the worst. Maybe things would work out, they’d be good, he and Stiles could be happy.

And then _bam_! Stiles’ soulmate would show up. He’d fall for him. He’d be miserable stuck with Derek.

That was a risk he wasn’t willing to take. He knew the saying, “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” The thing about the saying though was that it referred to loving someone, not being loved in return. Derek knew he loved Stiles, he had for a long time, and he would continue to love him for as long as he drew breath. But if he dated him, if he truly _had_  him, and then he lost him—that was completely different. That saying didn’t cover the loss of _being_  loved, like so many people thought it did.

Derek could stand to watch Stiles move on and be with someone else, but only if he hadn’t been with Derek first. It was why he couldn’t risk it. He’d tried to turn Paige, and she’d died. He’d trusted Kate, and she’d murdered his family. He loved Stiles, and he didn’t want to lose him. He would live his life pining if he had to, but this was one person, _one person_ he couldn’t risk.

He stiffened unintentionally when a cup of coffee was set down in front of him, turning to see Stiles giving him a concerned look. He hadn’t even heard him approach.

“You okay there, big guy?”

“Yeah.” He shoved his phone back into his pocket and nodded a thanks while pulling the mug of coffee closer. “Just thinking.”

“About your question?”

Derek cast him a look and Stiles just shrugged.

“I’ve been thinking about mine obsessively,” he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest and hunching his shoulders, like he was trying to make himself smaller. “She didn’t _not_  answer my question. Not exactly. But a bit more clarity would’ve been nice.”

“Yeah,” Derek admitted sourly, mind drifting back to the word she’d given him. His eyes shifted past Stiles, who also turned when the door on the coffeeshop side opened. He hastened back to the counter with a bright smile and a cheerful greeting, making small talk with the two girls who’d just walked in.

They were holding hands, and Derek was bitter all over again, scowling back down at his book. He pulled his phone back out after a few moments of listening to Stiles and the girls chat, and looked up more variations of the term ‘mischief’ in an attempt to decipher the crazy lady’s words.

It had to mean something.

It _had_  to.

* * *

Derek practically kicked the door open in his haste to enter the back room, despite the fact that Deaton had been in the process of pushing it open for him. He hurried forward ahead of the Druid, who rushed to the opposite side of the examination room to root through the various bottles he had there.

When Derek moved to set Stiles down on one of the large metal tables, Jackson snapped at him to be careful and moved to cradle Stiles’ head while Derek deposited him as gently as possible, having been carrying him in his arms.

For someone who had the worst luck, Derek felt like Stiles was a close runner up. He always seemed to get himself into trouble, and as much as Derek wished it weren’t the case, tonight was no different.

Stiles’ breathing was laboured, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat while more drops beaded along his face and neck. Derek reached out to press the back of his hand to his cheek and cursed.

“He’s getting warmer.”

“I have a basin in the back,” Deaton called over his shoulder.

Jackson turned and disappeared out of the room while Derek brushed his hand gently through Stiles’ hair. He let out a small whine, but his eyes remained closed and his breathing continued, harsh and laboured. He stank of fear, and pain, and sweat. His shirt was almost drenched with it, and as his body temperature continued to rise, more drops of it slid along his face and neck, pooling in the hollow of this throat.

Derek turned when Jackson hauled a large metal basin into the room. It wasn’t great, but it would have to do. Anything to get his temperature down.

Pulling him upright so he was sitting up, Derek ripped his shirt off, a small part of his brain apologizing since he was sure he’d hear about that later. Then again, the large hole in it would have probably forced Stiles to toss it out anyway.

The wound in his shoulder was oozing sluggishly, not deep, but wicked looking with yellow tendrils snaking up towards his throat and chest beneath the skin. It looked worse than it had in the car and Derek swallowed the uncomfortable lump in his throat, lying him back down quickly and yanking the human’s shoes off.

Deaton was still across the room looking through cabinets and grabbing various items. Derek had to resist the urge to snap at him to hurry up, because he knew that wasn’t going to help anyone at all. He just focussed on getting Stiles’ jeans unbuttoned and yanked them down, wanting as much skin exposed as possible.

Jackson was in the process of filling up the basin, and even though it had hardly any water in it so far, Derek still picked Stiles up and carefully deposited him into it, trying to ignore the whimper of pain that escaped him.

“The lines are spreading faster,” Derek called to Deaton, eyes on the yellow tendrils slowing snaking along beneath his skin. He pressed his hand to the wound and tried to suck at Stiles’ pain, but it literally felt like he was on fire. Every time he and Jackson tried to help ease some of his suffering, it was like acid racing up their arms, shooting through their veins. The pain was like nothing Derek had ever experienced before, and it made him want to vomit at the realization that Stiles was the one experiencing it. How his insides hadn’t liquefied and he hadn’t instantly lost his mind, Derek had no idea.

Well, no, he had an idea. It was Stiles. Stiles was the strongest person he knew.

“To one side, please,” Deaton said quickly, appearing beside Derek and crouching down. He had some kind of weird seaweed looking substance in one hand covered in a clear liquid. He pressed it down hard on Stiles’ open wound.

The reaction was instantaneous. Stiles jerked and his arms came up to defend himself. Jackson grabbed at one of them and Derek had to hastily reach into the freezing water to hold his legs down. Stiles screamed, bucking his hips, trying to pull away from Deaton, even as his free hand attempted to claw at the Druid’s closest arm. Deaton didn’t even react, pressing down harder.

It seemed to take an eternity for Stiles to stop thrashing. The water was well above his waist by the time he quieted down. His skin was still warm to the touch, and Derek had no intention of letting him out of the bath until he was back to a normal temperature, but at least his breathing had calmed slightly.

Deaton pulled away, the plant-based ointment he’d pushed into the wound sticking to Stiles’ skin. The Druid looked exhausted, but relieved.

“It should pass. It won’t be quick, but he’s out of danger.”

“He’s still warm,” Jackson argued, gripping Stiles’ arm so tightly Derek worried he might cut off his circulation.

“His body is fighting the poison, but the remedy is working.”

Derek knew it was true, because he could see that the yellow tendrils previously snaking their way along beneath Stiles’ skin were receding back towards the wound. He was going to yell at Stiles for a solid hour once he was better, and he was going to argue him into submission about not coming in to work. He needed both arms to work at the counter and make coffee, and one of them was going to be out of commission given the giant hole straight through his shoulder.

He was going to need to call Melissa again to make sure someone checked on it so it didn’t get infected. Human anatomy was so inconvenient, Derek had no idea how they all didn’t just die from a papercut.

Derek had gotten a papercut. It fucking hurt. And he only had to feel it for a _second_. How did humans, without the accelerated healing, deal with the constant pain of an injury? They were clearly the superior species, no matter what others of his kind thought.

Still, the Manticore was lucky it was dead, or else Derek would’ve gone back out there to find it and _murder_  it for hurting Stiles. He was getting really tired of people hurting Stiles in his presence. He kind of felt like he needed his own personal guard. Then again, Derek figured he and Jackson basically _were_  his own personal guard.

And not even just from monsters, either. From humans, as well.

There was one time at work where an older gentleman was giving Stiles grief about something or another, and the only reason Derek hadn’t ripped the guy a new one was because Jackson had been closer and he’d very colourfully told the man to leave and not come back before he regretted it.

Wolves were very territorial of what belonged to them, and Derek was really getting tired of people and monsters trying to hurt what was his.

Deaton went about cleaning up around the room, but even once that was done, he didn’t leave. He stuck around in his chair, doing paperwork and occasionally returning to check Stiles’ temperature, as well as the wound.

Derek and Jackson had both released their death grips on him, and the water had long ago been turned off, but they didn’t leave his side. Jackson paced along the length of the basin, eyes on Stiles and occasional growls escaping him, like he was still pissed neither of them had been fast enough to avert this injury to their human friend. Derek just stayed crouched on the other side of it, reaching out every now and then to check his temperature, to brush sweaty hair off his forehead, to ensure the water was still adequately cold. His thighs were burning off and on from the position, like his healing kept kicking in before the pain would overpower it. After the first hour, they finally went numb, and he couldn’t even really feel them anymore.

Jackson texted Melissa around four in the morning, since she was on shift and they knew she would rush by the second she heard about Stiles being injured. Four was close enough to the end of her shift that she’d probably stick it out and come by immediately after.

Derek hoped she didn’t tell the sheriff. The man was really better off once he _saw_  Stiles was better. Sure, he got mad about finding out he was badly injured after the fact, but it was better than having him around while Stiles was still unconscious. That had happened enough times for Derek to know he didn’t want to witness it more often than absolutely necessary. The man was always a wreck, and it wasn’t good for his heart.

When the back door opened at quarter-to-five, Derek assumed Melissa hadn’t been able to hold out any longer, but when the door to the room they were in finally opened, the hostility in the room went up about ten thousand percent.

Jackson stopped pacing, baring his teeth at the new arrival, and it took a conscious effort for Derek not to react in a similar fashion. Deaton, wisely, nodded once in greeting, and returned to his paperwork, knowing full well this was something to stay out of.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Jackson bit out angrily, Scott moving forward with a concerned look on his face.

Derek had to resist the temptation to bite at Scott’s hand when he reached out and brushed some of Stiles’ wet hair off his forehead.

“I was busy,” he replied acidly.

“Fucking your girlfriend isn’t ‘busy,’ it’s not knowing how to prioritize,” Jackson spat back hatefully.

Scott’s gaze shot up to Jackson and he let out a threatening growl, eyes bleeding red. Jackson snarled back, features shifting into something more animalistic and his eyes burning blue. He snapped his teeth at Scott, and Derek honestly thought a full out war was about to start in Deaton’s small examination room when another voice spoke.

“You’re loud enough to wake the dead.”

Derek’s gaze shot back down to Stiles, and both Scott and Jackson ceased their peacocking immediately, Jackson hurrying forward again so he could crouch beside the basin.

“Stiles?” Derek reached into the basin to find one of his hands, squeezing it tightly. “Are you awake?”

“Wish I wasn’t,” he muttered. It seemed to take a tremendous effort to get his eyes open, but he finally managed it, blinking owlishly up at the ceiling. His eyes took a few seconds to focus, then he turned to look at Derek, offering him a weak smile. “Stop being such a Sourwolf, get that look off your face.”

“What were you thinking?!” Jackson exploded before Derek had the chance. “Stiles, you could’ve _died_! If it had hit you even a little more to the right, you _would have_!”

Stiles’ hand squeezed at Derek’s briefly, the human looking at him in a clear, “Please make him stop yelling at me, I’m injured, look how pathetic I am,” sort of way. Derek didn’t buy it for a second, and knew it was just Stiles trying to get out of being yelled at despite _knowing_  he’d done something wrong, but he couldn’t say no to Stiles.

Even when he knew it was manipulation.

“Leave him be,” Derek muttered, still holding fast to Stiles’ hand. “We can yell at him later.”

The groan that left Stiles then clearly showed he’d been expecting Derek to just take his side, not delay the inevitable. Derek wasn’t letting him out of this that easily, he was one-hundred percent yelling at him for this later.

They stayed where they were for a while longer in silence, Stiles seeming to be trying to re-learn how to breathe or move. When Melissa showed up, Jackson and Scott helped Stiles out of the basin, the injured party shivering since he’d been submerged in cold water for hours _and_  was now sopping wet. The plant-based sludge on Stiles’ shoulder fell to the ground with a splat when he stumbled out of the basin, but nobody made any move to pick it up. Deaton just handed over a towel for him to wrap around himself before Stiles obediently sat on the table at Melissa’s prompting.

Derek’s legs burned when he finally managed to lever himself to his feet. The ache was only there for a few seconds, but it hurt like nothing else because of how long he’d been crouched beside the basin.

When Melissa ordered them all out so she could work in peace, Scott tried to argue that he could help. Derek tried not to feel too smug when she snapped at him to get out like the rest of them. They obediently moved out into the waiting room at the front, Deaton having to push the gate open since none of them could touch it.

Derek was exhausted when he finally sat down. Knowing Stiles was okay and the town was safe meant the adrenaline he’d been running on for the past few hours was finally clearing from his system. All he wanted to do was go home and take a nap.

The fact that the store had to open in a few hours wasn’t really helping, but he figured maybe they could open late today so they could all get some sleep. He also had to call in a favour from one of the high schoolers to cover a few shifts considering he didn’t want Stiles in the shop for a while.

Or maybe they could swap, since he knew Stiles would ignore him. There wasn’t as much business on the bookstore side, and it wasn’t as demanding physically, so maybe that could be a compromise.

“You need to get your priorities figured out.”

Jackson’s voice cut through his thoughts, Derek having slouched in his seat with his arms crossed while he tried to figure out how to keep Stiles out of the shop. He turned to ask him what he was talking about, but realized he wasn’t looking at him. Honestly, Scott was so rarely around that he’d forgotten he was even there.

“I have my priorities figured out fine,” Scott spat hatefully, glaring at Jackson. “Don’t act like you didn’t disappear for years and only came back when it was convenient for you.”

“My parents sent me London, dipshit,” Jackson hissed, eyes burning blue again. “I came back because Beacon Hills has always been home, despite how many useless idiots exist in it.”

“And when Ethan comes back, you’ll be gone again. Don’t act like you’re planning on putting down roots here, this is just a pitstop to your next destination.” Scott paused then, and after a moment, he added. “I guess I should’ve said _if_  Ethan comes back. Because who can stand someone like you?”

Derek was out of his chair in less than a second, catching Jackson around the middle when he roared and launched himself at Scott. That would only cause injuries that would take a long time to heal, given Scott was an Alpha and he and Jackson were just Betas. He didn’t want Jackson hurt because he couldn’t hold his temper.

_“Stop that, behave like adults!”_ Stiles’ voice said from the back room where he was located. _“I can hear your temper tantrums from here!”_

“You don’t deserve him,” Jackson said darkly. “One day, he’s going to realize you’re garbage, and you’re going to lose him. And I hope I’m there the day he finally tells you ‘no.’”

“Stiles doesn’t know how to say ‘no’ to me,” Scott said, unconcerned with the fact that Derek was literally holding Jackson back from trying to tear his face off.

Deaton just looked like he hoped they kept the bloodshed to a minimum so he wouldn’t have to clean the front area before he opened.

“You’re going to regret taking him for granted,” Jackson promised. “Some of us actually enjoy his company. You don’t know what you’re risking by pushing him away like you are. I’m looking forward to when the other shoe drops.”

“Can’t a guy get patched up in peace?”

They all turned, Derek still gripping Jackson tightly to keep him away from Scott. Stiles was walking on unsteady legs through the swinging gate, wincing and touching his bandaged shoulder. He was wearing his jeans, but his upper body was bare given the treatment Derek had ever so kindly provided it with. He’d buy him another shirt, no big deal.

“How’re you feeling?” Derek asked, releasing Jackson since Stiles’ appearance had calmed him somewhat. The two of them moved forward, almost crowding him, to make sure he was all right. Derek ignored that Scott had only stood up but made no move to approach.

“Sore, but I’ll live.” He slapped Derek’s arm lightly with his good one. “Should get home, we all have early mornings tomorrow.” He frowned. “Uh, later.”

“We can close for the day.”

“Nah, it’ll be good for us to be at work, keep us distracted,” Stiles insisted.

Derek knew what Stiles meant. Having him close would help Derek and Jackson both with their protectiveness, and being at work would help distract Stiles from how much pain he was in. Derek never thought he’d see the day where Stiles would be _arguing_  to go to work, but it made sense.

“We’ll open late,” he finally said. “I’ll stop by the shop and put a note up. You’re in the bookstore side today.”

“Wha—I can make coffee!”

“Good for you, you’re still in the bookstore side today.”

Stiles made a sound like a dying giraffe, but didn’t argue. They just thanked Deaton and Melissa for their help, allowed Scott a few seconds to _pretend_  he cared, and then headed out to their respective vehicles. They’d taken the Camaro to the Manticore fight, so Derek had to drive Jackson and Stiles home. Scott offered to take Stiles, but Jackson just bared his teeth at him and Stiles insisted he was fine with the Camaro since Scott had an early morning.

Derek liked the think it was more that Stiles didn’t want to go with Scott. Probably not though, he was honestly probably being conscious of Scott’s earlier schedule, despite the fact that Derek was _positive_  Scott had been sleeping before showing up, unlike the rest of them.

Useless Alpha. Almost no point having him around at all. Scott could leave town and nobody would even notice.

Well, Stiles would, but nobody else.

They climbed back into the Camaro, Jackson cursing and muttering about the mess in the back seat. Stiles had been back there with Jackson earlier, so his blood had soaked into the leather. Derek didn’t mind, because Stiles was alive, and his ruined upholstery was of little concern, but Jackson was bitching about not being able to sit down without ruining his pants. Stiles started to offer to switch with him, but Derek gave him a look and he grinned before settling into the front seat. Putting on his seatbelt looked painful, but Stiles breathed through it and Derek waited until he looked okay before starting the car and heading out.

He dropped Jackson off first, mostly because he needed more time with Stiles to make sure he was truly all right. Stiles didn’t comment on the order, even though they’d driven past Stiles’ place to get to Jackson’s.

Once he was out of the car and heading up the drive, Derek backed out and started the drive to Stiles’, trying and failing to avoid casting glances over at him. He was rubbing around the wound in his shoulder, wincing every now and then, like he was testing his own mobility.

“You need to stop,” Derek said softly, Stiles turning to him when he spoke. “You’re not a Werewolf, Stiles. You need to stop risking your life like this.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t say what he wanted to, he didn’t admit that he couldn’t lose him. That he was all he had left. That Stiles was his anchor, his best friend, his _everything_.

But he knew he didn’t have to. He knew Stiles could read between the lines, even if he didn’t know just _how much_ Derek loved him.

“We’re pack,” Stiles insisted quietly. “I’m going to do whatever I have to in order to protect my pack.”

They were silent for a moment longer, then Derek said something he’d been thinking since the moment he’d met him, despite knowing he shouldn’t.

“I wish Peter had bitten you instead of Scott.”

Stiles said nothing to that, but a part of Derek wondered if Stiles wished that, too. He’d always been a formidable force, even as a human. His stint as the Nogitsune had reinforced just how _smart_  Stiles was, how strong he was, because he’d figured everything out himself, and had worked hard to give them clues along the way, even while being possessed. He’d suffered, and broken, and forced the pieces of himself back together.

Stiles was the most amazing person Derek had ever met, and if anyone would’ve made a good Alpha, it was him. He cared, he was smart, he knew how to keep people together. Stiles would’ve been the perfect choice, and Derek knew that Peter regretted who he’d bitten. He knew that, if given the chance, if he could redo it, Peter would’ve gone back and bitten Stiles instead of Scott.

Derek felt like Stiles knew that, too. It was something a lot of the pack thought about, but no one had ever voiced aloud.

Until now.

“I like to think I’m scarier as a human,” Stiles finally said, after much too long a silence. He turned to grin at Derek, though it wasn’t as vibrant as usual given the pain he was in. “You gotta admit, life’s a lot more exciting with me in it.”

“A lot more annoying,” he insisted, trying to avoid the smile threatening his lips.

“Come on, Derek. You know it’s a lot more fun when you’ve got a little bit of mischief in your life.”

The words were like a punch to the chest, and it took a conscious effort for Derek not to react to them.

Mischief.

The word he’d been plagued by since the Witch had said it to him. That one word that was both his salvation and his damnation. He was never going to find his soulmate, not with something as vague as that.

He forgot about it, every now and then. It had been almost two months since the Witch, so it was easier now to let the word slip through the cracks when he didn’t think on it too much. But it would always inevitably rear its head. Whenever Derek stared at Stiles just that little bit too long, or when they hung out and Stiles hung all over him, or when something happened to one of them and the other lost their shit.

Whenever Derek remembered how much he loved Stiles, the word surfaced and reminded him that Stiles wasn’t his. That he probably wouldn’t ever be his. Derek was too much of a coward to risk starting something with Stiles, only to have him ripped away. He’d survived a lot in his life, but this was one thing he knew he wouldn’t survive. This was one hurt he couldn’t overcome, because he’d already lost so much, and Stiles was the one thing he had left to lose.

And he couldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. It was better to want him and still have him, than to have him in all ways possible and lose him.

He wasn’t risking it.

He _wasn’t_.

When he finally pulled up to the curb outside his house, Stiles let out a groan when he saw the cruiser there and a light on inside.

“Melissa totally called him,” Stiles muttered, sighing and carefully undoing his seatbelt. Derek’s eyes lingered on his bandaged wound, actually proud of himself for not taking the opportunity to ogle his chest. But he knew that was more of the protectiveness in him, because Stiles’ chest was fine, his shoulder was the problem.

“If you can’t come in today, just send me a text.”

“I will be there come hell or high water, just let me know what time we’re opening,” Stiles argued, getting the seatbelt off and turning to Derek. “Thanks for the ride. And, you know, not letting me die.”

Derek stared at him, wanting to say something. Probably sappy, if he was honest. He managed to refrain, but he did keep their eyes locked for so long that he was sure Stiles would magically be able to read his mind.

He wanted to kiss him. So badly. And it would be so easy, too. Stiles’ lips were slightly parted, as they often were whenever they were together since Stiles didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. It would be so easy to just lean over, grab Stiles’ face with his closest hand, and pull him forward for a kiss.

He’d almost lost him today. He almost lost him a lot. He just wanted to kiss him once. Just once. He wanted to know what it felt like, what he tasted like. But he also knew if he kissed him, it wouldn’t be just once. It would be one time. And then two. Three, four, five. It would continue, over and over, and Derek couldn’t do that.

Not to himself, and not to Stiles. Not knowing what he knew now. That Stiles had his own soulmate out there, whether he found them or not.

Stiles deserved to be happy, and he wouldn’t be happy with someone like Derek.

So despite the fact that his wishful thinking had him imagining that Stiles’ eyes had dropped down to look at his mouth, Derek forced himself to look away back out the windshield, hands tightening around the steering wheel.

“Make sure you eat a lot of sugar. It’ll help with the queasiness from the Manticore venom.”

“Right,” Stiles said after a few seconds. “Thanks. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Yeah.” Derek resolutely kept his gaze forward while Stiles opened the door and climbed out of the car.

He waited until Stiles was inside the house, the other man having turned once he was on the porch as if to check that he was still there before finally disappearing inside.

Derek sat there for a moment longer, watching the house and wishing, not for the first time, that he hadn’t asked the question he had. He should’ve just asked if he could’ve had Stiles. If he could’ve made him happy. If they would’ve worked if they got together.

Sure, given the Witch’s obvious penchant for riddles and vagueness, he probably wouldn’t have gotten a straight answer, but knowing soulmates were real was actually more depressing than anything because it meant someone would eventually come and take Stiles away from him.

That was the thing he hated most about this. It wasn’t about him finding his own soulmate, it was about potentially stealing Stiles away from the one person in the world who would make him happy. And Derek wanted him to be happy, so he wasn’t willing to risk it.

Stiles was the single most important thing in the world to him, and he was going to make sure that he had his happy ending, even if it wasn’t with him.

* * *

“You and Stilinski break up or something?”

Derek looked up from the book he was reading, eyebrows raised slightly at the weird question. Jackson finished closing the distance and dropped a raspberry scone on the counter in front of him before leaning forward and bracing himself on it, staring Derek down.

“What?”

“I know you heard me, your ears work just fine, Hale.”

Derek just stared at him, because Jackson was impatient and more likely to walk off than Stiles would’ve. He was proven right when the other Werewolf growled, flashed blue eyes at Derek, then turned to head back for his side of the shop.

Just as Derek was reaching out to grab the scone, Jackson returned to snatch the plate up, maturely turning his back on Derek and heading for the other side once more. Derek scowled at his retreating back, but figured he’d get up off his ass in a minute to get the scone back. He had to use the bathroom anyway, he’d just been procrastinating.

It wasn’t that the book he was reading was particularly interesting, it was just that he was a little obsessed. He’d sought out virtually everything he could find with reference to ‘mischief’ in any form, be it movies, shows, books, fucking comic strips in the newspaper, anything. He felt like he was going insane with the thought of it, and every time he considered giving up, he just remembered how much he cared about Stiles and wanted him to be happy.

It also explained why Jackson was giving him grief. Derek had started cutting Stiles’ shifts and avoided telling him when there were problems in town so that he wouldn’t show up. His near miss the other week where he’d almost kissed him was still weighing heavily on him and he didn’t want to risk it again. If he had Stiles too close, he would feel the temptation grow as it had been for years.

And Stiles deserved better than to be stuck with him when someone better was out there waiting to give him everything he wanted and needed.

Which also kind of made Derek bitter, because _he_  would give Stiles everything he wanted and needed. Derek could do that. He would do anything for Stiles, hell he _had_  done virtually anything for him. And even now, he was choosing Stiles’ own happiness over his own because Stiles meant _that much_ to him.

The only downside was that avoiding Stiles meant he was making him a little miserable. And also angry. Stiles had been sending him passive-aggressive messages which had later become just aggressive messages. He’d shown up a few times over the past few days asking about his shifts, and Derek could tell he was more upset than actually angry.

Stiles was trying to disguise hurt behind anger because he didn’t want to let Derek know how upset their slow drift was making him. Derek could sense it, though. And smell it.

Also, he just knew Stiles extremely well, so it wasn’t like he’d miss the fact that Stiles was miserable over this.

But he still had Jackson. They still hung out, so Derek knew Stiles wasn’t entirely alone. And Stiles had other friends in town that he saw every now and then. He was sure Scott made time for him in his busy schedule to at least see Stiles for ten seconds to pat him on the shoulder and ensure he hadn’t lost his loyalty.

Still, being a good person was hard, and Derek hated it, and he wanted Stiles.

Fuck, he wanted Stiles. So much.

His eyes began to glaze over reading the words on the page in front of him so he snapped the book shut and tossed it down, the cover mocking him with that hated word ‘mischief.’ Rubbing at his face with both hands, he stood and headed towards the coffeeshop side of the store, ignoring the girl behind the counter who’d hastily shoved her phone back into her pocket and was now pretending to actually be working. He didn’t have the energy to glare at her, he just walked past her to find the scone Jackson had dropped on the far counter and picked the plate up, taking a bite of it. When he wandered through the back door into the kitchen, plate in one hand and scone in the other, still chewing, he found Jackson crouched in front of the oven, presumably keeping an eye on something.

“New recipe?” Derek asked, because that tended to be the only time Jackson watched what was in the oven like a hawk.

“You can’t have any,” he replied maturely.

Derek just moved up closer to him, standing beside Jackson while he continued to eat the scone. It was making him thirsty, so he figured he’d head out and make himself a coffee once he was finished.

They were both silent for a long while, Derek munching on the scone before finally setting it down and going to the bathroom, like he’d intended to. The half-eaten scone was right where he left it when he came back and he moved to pick the plate up, debating just heading out to make himself a coffee now, but before he made up his mind, Jackson spoke.

“What did she say?”

“Who, Beth?” Derek asked, confused. The only ‘she’ in the vicinity was the cashier beyond the door, so he assumed that was who Jackson was referring to, but he hadn’t spoken two words to her all day.

Actually, he didn’t tend to speak to any of the other people employed here, he usually just sat in his half of the shop and read until he had customers. The only ones he spoke to were Jackson and Stiles, and only because they came over to his side to chat his ear off. He didn’t usually come to the coffeeshop side unless he wanted something to eat or drink.

“No, the Witch.” Jackson turned to look at him and Derek froze, scone at his lips. He forced himself to take a bite, but it tasted like sand in his mouth.

“She didn’t say anything,” he forced out.

“You’ve been acting weird ever since it happened,” Jackson accused, turning back to the oven, a scowl visible in the reflection of the glass. “You and Stilinski have been dancing around each other for years. I figured whatever you guys asked would push you both closer together. It seems to be working on his side, but not on yours. You seem to be pulling away instead of surging forward, but I’ve seen the way you look at him.” He glanced back over at Derek. “It disgusts me, by the way. How you look when you stare at him.”

“Then stop watching me,” Derek retorted.

“I can’t, you’re too pathetic.” Jackson looked back into the oven, then stood, slapping his hands on his jeans and crossing his arms when he turned to Derek. “Why are you pushing him away?”

“Because I want him to be happy.”

“He looks pretty miserable right now,” Jackson countered. “What did the Witch say to you?”

“What did she say to you?” Derek shot back.

Predictably, Jackson didn’t respond, which was basically what he’d been going for. A way to make him drop it. But even so, having Jackson staring at him like he was forced the words past his lips without his consent.

“She told me soulmates are real.”

Jackson jerked like someone had electrocuted him, but otherwise he didn’t react. He just kept staring at Derek, as if waiting for a better explanation. When none came, he turned to glance back at his newest creation before focussing on him once more.

“And she said Stilinski wasn’t yours? Or was she vague enough that you couldn’t tell?”

“Vague doesn’t even _begin_  to describe it,” he muttered, moving to set his plate down in one of the sinks along the wall. He took his time rinsing it, despite it not having had anything particularly stubborn to clean off on it, and then put it in the heavy duty dishwasher, procrastinating turning back to Jackson.

“Let me guess,” Jackson said, finally impatient enough to just speak to Derek’s back. “She didn’t admit it was him, so you’re worried about stealing his happiness that he could possibly have with someone else.”

Derek’s silence was all the admission he needed, clearly, because the next thing he knew, he had a dish towel on his head. Jackson had evidently been looking for something to throw at him, and the towel was the closest item. He yanked it off his head and turned to glare at Jackson, since now he’d have to wash the damn thing because it had touched his head and he couldn’t afford to have Jackson accidentally get hair in the food.

Not that Derek didn’t wash the dish towels daily, but it was the middle of the morning and the last thing he wanted to be doing was fucking laundry.

“Did it occur to you that maybe _you’re_  his soulmate?” Jackson demanded.

“I’m not.”

“Did she specifically _say_  you weren’t? Because again: she was vague. So what if you’re actually destroying what you both already have for something you’re misinterpreting? What if you’re pushing him away when you’re actually meant to be pulling him closer?”

“And what if I’m not?” Derek snapped, almost tossing the towel on the counter angrily before catching himself and clenching his fist tighter around it. “What if Stiles and I do this, start something, and his soulmate turns up? Stiles wouldn’t dump me for someone else, he’s too noble, and I could ruin any chance at happiness he rightfully deserves.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jackson insisted, then glanced at the oven and cursed. He bent down and pulled it open, then grabbed at some oven mitts to pull the tray out, setting it down on the counter.

Derek wasn’t sure what they were, some kind of chocolate pastries, but they looked good, at least.

“You don’t want to be with him because you’re stupid, fine, that’s your call. It’s a stupid call, but it’s yours. But you also said you want him to be happy, and your distance is making him _miserable_.” Jackson turned to give him a look. “You can’t have it both ways, Derek. Either you want him happy or you don’t. So be with him or don’t, that’s up to you, but don’t push him away because you’re an idiot, it’s not fair to him. He hasn’t done anything wrong, and he doesn’t deserve the deteriorating friendship going on right now because you can’t handle going after what you want.”

Derek just scowled at him for accusing him of not going after something he wanted. Derek would love nothing more than to go after Stiles, it was _Stiles_  he was thinking of! His happiness, his future, everything. If he found out tomorrow that _he_  was Stiles’ soulmate, he’d tear the store apart to get to him so he could kiss him. But he wouldn’t find out tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the day after.

Until he could decipher his riddle, what mischief _meant_ , he was never going to know. And he hated that.

But he also hated that Jackson was right. He was hurting Stiles by pushing him away, and that was in direct contradiction of his desires of keeping Stiles happy, even if it wasn’t with him. It was hard to be around him, but that wasn’t Stiles’ fault, and he couldn’t punish him for something that was beyond his control.

He watched Jackson take apart the new pastries, taking a bite out of one and letting out an appreciative sound. He held it out to Derek then, who obediently tore a piece off and popped it into his mouth.

Despite the fact that he knew it was probably good, everything he put in his mouth currently tasted like ash.

He wished he’d never asked the Witch his question.

* * *

When he went home that night, Derek texted Stiles to ask if they could hang out. A peace offering, and an attempt to mend what he’d slowly but surely been breaking between them. Stiles informed him he was out with Scott, so he didn’t hold his breath on it, but an hour later, Stiles was throwing open the loft door.

Scott, predictably, had bailed on him early to hang out with his newest girlfriend. And despite the fact that they hadn’t been speaking much the past few days, Derek was relieved at how easily they fell back into their usual routine. Stiles fell onto the couch beside him, and seriously considered cutting ties with their resident Alpha. Of course, that came with a lot of emotions, because they’d known one another a long time, and Scott was his best friend, and he honestly didn’t know if he could do something like that.

The compromise Derek could come up with was that Stiles should stop making plans with him, and stop going out of his way to do things for him. If Scott wanted their friendship to last, he had to do his part, as well. If Scott didn’t call him for anything other than a favour, then clearly their friendship was no longer genuine and Scott didn’t deserve him.

Stiles was, understandably, upset to realize that, but he agreed that he would start putting a stop to letting Scott walk all over him.

Derek texted Jackson about the conversation when Stiles went to the bathroom, and he received back about fifty thumbs-ups along with a few middle fingers. For someone who’d once hated Stiles, Derek was actually really glad that he’d gotten over that and they were now friends. Jackson and Stiles really were an unlikely pair, but Derek knew that their friendship would surpass even what Stiles and Scott used to be.

Jackson was a Werewolf, and his protectiveness of Stiles immediately meant he would forever be there for him because he’d acknowledged him as one of his own. Stiles was too loyal, and determined to keep Jackson on the straight and narrow, as he’d been doing for the past few years. They were going to be friends until the day they died, and Derek would’ve been jealous if he wasn’t so relieved that Stiles had someone _that_  devoted to him in his life. He didn’t need Scott anymore, he had Jackson, and even when Ethan came back, Stiles would always, _always_  have Jackson.

And who knew? Maybe Ethan would want to stay in Beacon Hills, which would mean Jackson would stay. That would be ideal, though Derek wasn’t going to hold his breath. Beacon Hills was where his brother had died, so he doubted Ethan had fond memories of the place. But maybe Jackson could convince him. After all, apparently Ethan made a mean cappuccino.

When Stiles came back from the bathroom, they moved out of the Scott territory, but he didn’t bring up Derek’s abrupt change, and his equally abrupt reversal. Derek was thankful, but he knew Stiles had done it for his benefit. After all, Stiles knew him almost as well as Derek did Stiles. To realize Derek didn’t want to talk about it wasn’t so much obvious as it was Stiles knowing Derek would never want to talk about it unless he offered the information up.

They were in the middle of a cooking show, Stiles flailing at the screen and insisting the contestant hurry up because the clock was counting down the last seconds, when Derek spoke.

He had to speak, because he’d been eying the column of Stiles’ throat, and the broadness of his chest, and the softness of his hair, and if he didn’t speak he was going to grab one of Stiles’ flailing arms and suck lewdly on his fingers. He was sure that would raise a lot of questions, so it was safer to speak and force Stiles to stop being so fucking attractive.

“What did you ask her?”

It took a second for Stiles to turn to him, since he was still watching the countdown, but once it hit zero and the show cut to commercial, he turned to him. “What?”

“The Witch. What did you ask her?”

He expected him not to answer, like Jackson. Or to deflect, like Derek himself had done.

Surprisingly, he just shrugged and said, “I asked her what I could do to help someone I care about.”

“Oh.” Stiles had probably asked about his father, which made sense. Derek didn’t have any family left to worry about, or think about, so it hadn’t occurred to him that someone like Stiles, who put his father above all else, would ask about him. But of course, it made sense. “And she answered?”

“Sort of?” Stiles raked a hand through his hair, shrugging again. “I’m sure she treated all of us the same way in the answers department, but I like to think it was helpful. For the most part, anyway.” He dropped his hand, eying Derek then. “What did you ask her?”

“Something I wish I hadn’t,” he admitted, turning back to the television. “If I could do it over again, I’d have asked something different.”

“Is that why you’ve been so grumpy lately?” Stiles asked. He reached out to poke at Derek’s cheek, who resolutely ignored him. “Is that why you’re so grumpy? McGrumpy-pants? Grumpywolf? Grumpy McGrumperton?” Stiles was pitching his voice higher with each new nickname, like he was speaking to a child. Derek knew he was smirking, even without turning to look at him.

He kept poking at Derek’s cheek for a few seconds, making nonsensical noises for a bit, and when they ceased, Derek shifted his gaze to look over at him. Stiles still had one finger on his cheek, but the smile was gone and he was frowning.

“You didn’t ask anything like when you were going to die, right?”

“What?” Derek frowned. “No.”

“Okay, good. You’re not allowed to die, by the way.”

“I’m not the one at risk of dying,” Derek informed him, pointedly looking at his shoulder. It had mostly healed since the Manticore attack, given it had been just under two weeks since then, but still. Stiles liked to flirt with Death and Derek _did not like it_.

The only person, real or otherwise, Derek wanted him flirting with was _him_.

“Don’t be speciesist,” Stiles said with a small smirk.

“Don’t be a smartass.”

“You love my smart ass.”

Yes, he did, but he was never going to tell Stiles that.

* * *

Jackson was in a much better mood when he came in the next day, because Stiles was there to greet him. He also tossed a smug look Derek’s way, but he pretended not to notice and just kept reading his book.

He listened to Stiles and a few customers chit chat when they came in for their morning coffees. A few regulars proclaimed their day had been made at the sight of him back behind the counter, and Derek felt a little guilty for the distance he’d been forcing. It didn’t last long, mostly because he did his best to tune them out, and because he got distracted by Jackson singing a _Backstreet Boys_ song in the kitchen.

At his first unavoidable laugh, Jackson seemed to remember Derek was there and threatened him with castration if he told anyone what he’d heard. Derek muttered back that he could be bribed into silence by chocolate muffins, and Jackson immediately got to work on those.

As the day progressed, Stiles wandered over to visit him a few times, leaning against the counter and chatting with him about various things. Derek always gave him his full attention, but was secretly glad whenever a customer walked into the coffeeshop because he felt like, if anything, the more he knew he couldn’t have Stiles, the more he wanted him. He’d never noticed before how _good_  Stiles smelled, it was driving him _crazy_!

The only hiccup in an otherwise uneventful day was when Scott walked in on his lunch break and asked Stiles for a favour having to do with his new girlfriend. Derek was sure Stiles could feel his eyes burning holes into the side of his skull, because he looked uncomfortable when he said he wouldn’t do it. Like he remembered their conversation from the night before, and was valiantly trying to make Derek proud of him by refusing to allow Scott to take advantage of him anymore.

Predictably, Scott kept trying to butter him up, calling him his best friend, reminding him how much he cared about him, that he was always there when he needed him. Derek could see Stiles’ resolve cracking, but he stood his ground and Scott shot Derek a filthy look on his way out the door when he didn’t get his way.

Honestly, Derek was surprised he hadn’t thrown a temper tantrum.

“I’m proud of you,” Derek called across the two shops, knowing full well Scott could still hear him, and not caring in the slightest.

Stiles just sent him a somewhat weak smile, like he wasn’t sure he’d made the right decision, but Derek knew he had. And he could hear Jackson’s grin from where he sat, which was impressive since grins didn’t make sound, but _man_  could he hear Jackson’s.

A few customers entered Derek’s side of their shop in succession, making it harder for him to read since he wanted to keep an eye on them in case they needed anything. Besides, he couldn’t focus on his book properly when other people were around, so he just settled for doodling on the back of a few scraps of paper.

Doodling was kind of a misnomer, considering he was really just writing ‘mischief’ over and over again in different styles. He’d been doing it a lot, on top of all the other mischief-obsessed items on his list, but he was starting to think Jackson might be right. The Witch had spoken in riddles, and clearly ‘mischief’ wasn’t his soulmate—because who the fuck named their kid mischief barring a Greek God, and Derek was pretty sure his soulmate wasn’t a Demigod—so maybe it was time to put her words to bed.

Maybe it was time to just... take a leap of faith.

He startled when a plate fell down in front of him, Jackson having wandered over while he was distracted. The customers were still browsing the books, so Derek pulled the plate closer after dropping his pen, nodding a thanks to Jackson for the pizza bun. He hadn’t realized it was past lunchtime, but usually he didn’t need to think about it since Jackson made him something.

Convenient that he liked baking so much.

He’d just taken a bite out of the pizza bun, tomato sauce still hot and burning his tongue a bit, when he noticed Jackson frowning down at his clutter behind the counter. Derek followed his gaze, and realized he was staring down at all the pieces of paper with ‘mischief’ all over them.

“You’ve been doing that for a while,” Jackson commented, because of course he’d noticed. Stiles had probably noticed, too. “What’s with your obsession, anyway? All you’ve been doing lately is writing that everywhere and reading ridiculous-sounding books about it. What’s with that?”

“Because,” was Derek’s ever-helpful reply, stuffing another bite of the pizza bun into his mouth and chewing slowly, Jackson scowling at him.

His eyes shifted down again, staring at the receipts and papers all boasting the word ‘mischief’ over and over again in different fonts and styles. Derek had just shoved another bite of the pizza bun into his mouth when Jackson spoke again.

“Having you doing that lately is seriously making me feel like I need to go shove Stilinski’s head into a toilet.”

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him, not at all understanding why his writing mischief on pieces of paper was making Jackson feel like being a bully.

“What?”

Jackson waved towards the papers. “It’s bringing me back to the old days. When I was young and an asshole.”

“So like, an hour ago,” Derek said, shoving the last of the pizza bun into his mouth and slapping his hands together. He kind of wanted another one, but he knew Jackson wouldn’t make the trip twice. He figured he’d wander over once the customers were gone and get himself another one along with a chocolate pastry. Maybe there were still some muffins left, though he doubted it since Jackson had made them around the morning rush and they were a solid favourite amongst their customers.

“Hilarious,” Jackson said dryly. “I meant middle school. I remember how often I used to see that. Seeing that word over and over again, you’re reminding me of _him_.”

Derek froze in lifting the plate back up onto the counter for Jackson to take, staring at him. He didn’t know why the words had struck a chord, but something about them seemed important.

“What?” he managed to get out, because he _needed_  an explanation. What did Jackson mean when he said it was reminding him of someone?

And more importantly, of _who_.

Jackson, oblivious to Derek’s gears having ground to a halt in his skull, shrugged easily and continued. “He couldn’t say his name when he was younger. Or spell it.” He scoffed and rolled his eyes, clearly thinking back to his time in middle school. “All we heard for years was, ‘mischief, mischief, mischief.’ He used to write it on _everything_. Handed in assignments with it in the top corner. I mean, given how he turned out, he wasn’t exactly wrong. Mischief suited him back then. And now.”

Derek’s brain short-circuited because what? _What_?!

“Mischief,” he breathed, feeling his heartrate increase. Jackson clearly noticed, because he frowned, but before he could ask him about it, Derek bulled on. “It’s a name?”

“Are you deaf?” Jackson asked, sounding a little annoyed though it contrasted with how concerned he looked, his eyes locked on Derek’s chest, where his heart was beginning to pound harder and faster. “I said he _couldn’t_  say his name. He couldn’t say it, or spell it, so he just went by ‘mischief’ up until probably the fourth grade before finally switching it to something he liked better. His real name is Polish. Mieczyslaw, or something like that.” His eyes were flicking back and forth between Derek’s face and his chest.

Derek knew someone with a complicated first name that he didn’t share with anyone. He knew someone who hated his first name and went by a nickname instead. And he knew someone who had Polish grandparents.

He did.

He did, he did, he _did_!

But he needed it confirmed.

“Who?” he asked, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. He could see one of the customers standing behind Jackson, ready to be checked out, but he didn’t care about her. He didn’t care about her, or the store, or Jackson, or _anything_.

He cared about the answer.

“Who is it? This person named mischief, who _is_  it?”

Jackson gave him a weird look, like he still wasn’t entirely sure what the hell was going on, but he obediently lifted one hand, and Derek felt like he couldn’t breathe while he watched the hand rise, the first curl, and one finger point across the shop towards the one it was connected to.

It felt like he was turning his head in slow motion while he followed where Jackson was pointing, and when the other Werewolf spoke again, his words sounded slow and distorted, like he was speaking from underwater.

“You think his name is Stiles Stilinski?”

Derek’s eyes finally landed on who Jackson was pointing at.

Stiles.

_Stiles_!

“His parents aren’t _that_  cruel. Though Mieczyslaw isn’t much better, but—where are you going? I’m still talking!”

Derek almost broke straight through the swinging gate leading to his seat in his haste to get out from behind the counter. He was moving so fast that he was positive someone would recognize he wasn’t entirely human, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was Stiles.

The Witch had told him soulmates were real.

The Witch had told him his soulmate was ‘mischief.’

Jackson had told him Stiles used to call himself ‘mischief’ when he was younger.

Ergo: his soulmate was _Stiles_!

He actually _did_  break the small swinging gate that led behind the counter on the coffeeshop side, Stiles jumping and turning away from the customer he was in the middle of cashing out. He looked startled at having Derek suddenly so close.

“Derek, what’s wr—”

Derek grabbed his face in both hands and yanked him forward, pressing their lips together so hard he was sure he was hurting Stiles, but he couldn’t help it. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his fucking _fingertips_! His brain was on a loop of ‘Stiles is my soulmate, Stiles is my soulmate, _Stiles is my soulmate_!’ and he couldn’t get it to stop long enough for anything else to force its way through.

He just kissed Stiles like his entire world began and ended with his mouth. Which, really, it kind of did. Because Stiles was his everything, and he’d _been_  his everything for years. His anchor, his best friend, the person he trusted the most in the world, the only person he’d ever felt _this_  strongly about.

And he was his.

He was his, his, his.

No one else was going to come. Derek wasn’t going to steal Stiles’ happiness from him because _Derek_  was _his_  soulmate. Stiles was his, and Derek was Stiles’.

It took him a few seconds to realize he’d just barrelled across the two shops to kiss Stiles, and by the time he came down from his high of ‘holy shit, Stiles is my _soulmate_!’ and started to pull away, he realized he couldn’t because there were hands in his hair.

There were hands in his hair, and lips pressing back against his, and Stiles was trying to push himself closer. He opened his mouth, tongue coming out to run along the seam of Derek’s lips, and he did _not_  need any more of an invitation.

He pressed his tongue into Stiles’ mouth, rubbing it against Stiles’ own and resisting the urge to groan at the taste of him. Stiles was perfect, and amazing, and _everything_. He tasted like coffee and butterscotch and also somehow like toothpaste, but it was perfect, and addictive and _him_.

“Do I have to do _everything_  around here? Jesus Christ.” Jackson’s annoyed voice was barely audible over the sound of waves crashing through Derek’s ears, because he was holding Stiles so tightly, and Stiles was holding him back just as hard, and this was happening, this was _happening_. He was here, and he was kissing him, and Stiles was his.

Jackson’s annoyed grumblings were almost washed away by the pure joy coursing through Derek’s veins, but eventually, Stiles started to pull away and as much as Derek didn’t want to let him, he also recognized that breaking this kiss meant the opportunity for _more_  kisses. And he was very much looking forward to more kisses with Stiles, so he let him pull back.

Stiles’ face was flushed, his lips were wet, and he looked like he was a little dazed. He still had his hands buried in Derek’s hair though, like he was afraid to let him go, and he was staring at him with a mix of awe and elation.

“Hey,” Stiles said.

Derek couldn’t help the smile that took over his face, brushing his thumb lightly beneath Stiles’ left eye. “Hi,” he said in response.

“So that was—nice,” Stiles admitted, letting out a small huff of breath. “Uh, I’d like us to do that again. You know, without an audience.”

“And off shift,” Jackson snapped, slamming the till shut. “I am not client-facing, and I just had to cash out _four people_. You owe me, Hale. This is bullshit!” He stomped past them and disappeared into the back room, slamming the door open so hard it hit the opposite wall and probably cracked the tile, if the sound it made was anything to go by.

Derek didn’t care, he’d make it up to Jackson later. Besides, as annoyed as he was about the check-outs, he also knew Jackson was probably dancing out of sight because Derek had actually gone for something he wanted.

And given the conversation they’d had the previous day, he also knew what it meant to have Derek stride across the shops to kiss Stiles.

“I asked about soulmates,” Derek admitted when Stiles was about to lean in to kiss him again.

He blinked at him for a second, then jerked slightly, eyes widening. “What?”

“I asked the Witch about my soulmate. I asked who my soulmate was, and she said it was ‘mischief.’”

Stiles seemed to think for a second, before he grinned and slapped hard at Derek’s arm. “You idiot, you should’ve told me that from day one! I could’ve solved this problem for you months ago!”

Derek didn’t want to admit he’d been worried about Stiles’ happiness, but knowing he was his soulmate meant he could spend the rest of his life ensuring Stiles was never, _ever_  sad again. Because he was his _fucking_  soulmate, and he was going to make sure he made him the happiest person in the world.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now,” Stiles said, scratching lightly at Derek’s scalp and almost making him fucking _melt_.

“I’m sure I can live with that knowledge,” Derek informed him, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “I’m sure I can _happily_  live with that knowledge for the rest of my life.”

Stiles let out a laugh, kissing at Derek’s throat before shifting his arms so that he could wrap them around Derek’s neck, hugging him tightly.

“It’s funny. She was right.”

Derek frowned. “Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Stiles leaned back enough to grin at Derek. “We’re going to dinner tonight. You’re paying.”

“Cheapskate,” Derek informed him, but when Stiles leaned forward for another kiss, he didn’t deny him, kissing him back like he was the most important thing in the world.

Which was easy to do, because he _was_.

* * *

_“You know, I thought about it the entire time Jackson was in here with you. I’ve been trying to think about what to ask you, about what I **should**  ask you. And I really wish I could ask you about something else. Something about myself, or my dad, or just anything else. But I can’t. I can’t, because I care about him. And the more I think about it, the more I can’t help myself. Because I need to know. I need to know that things get better for him. That **he**  gets better. That he lets go of all his guilt, and that he starts being a real person again. Derek’s life has always been hard. He’s suffered so much, and I don’t want that for him anymore. I want to help him. I just—want to know. What I can do for him. So I guess my question to you is: what can I do for Derek Hale to help make him happy?”_

_“You’re already doing it.”_

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Idk if you remember what you said you liked the most, but I tried to incorporate as much as possible while making a coherent story, so happy birthday again, and I hope you enjoyed! <3 
> 
> Obligatory Copyright Crap:  
> \- Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis  
> \- Beauty and the Beast (c) Disney


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